


Martyr's Heaven

by immortalitylost



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Basically read this if you wanna cry, Billy dies, Implied Relationships, M/M, and he loves steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:47:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalitylost/pseuds/immortalitylost
Summary: “Plant your feet, Pretty Boy,” he says, loud enough so he knows Steve’ll hear. Those shocked-wider eyes let him know his message gets through. That warm brown….Gonna miss that up there in martyr’s heaven, bet you anything. Bet you a million bucks.“This is gonna be a rough one,” he says, quiet enough so he knows Steviewon’thear. He protects Steve for one more moment; protects him and protects him and protects him—what else is he good for?
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 13
Kudos: 46





	Martyr's Heaven

* * *

Billy doesn’t even look at the big bad monster crouched towering in front of him, demanding his attention. Fuck that. He refuses. He looks down at the girl instead. Seven feet, she’d whispered. Seven feet. He’d climbed those seven feet she’d offered back out of the hole he’d been dropped in, locked away in his own head for days now. And now he owes her. He flexes his hands into fists, feeling out their strength and finding it unfamiliar. 

The monster begs to be looked at. He denies it; cranes his head over his shoulder instead to get a good look—he can feel the fucker back there. Can feel those eyes. 

He catches them—Steve’s eyes. Those big brown eyes of his. Holds em one more time. Doesn’t let the fear that threatens to swallow him show through his cocky grin. Doesn’t wanna scare the guy. He holds those eyes—the only way to touch.

“Plant your feet, Pretty Boy,” he says, loud enough so he knows Steve’ll hear. Those shocked-wider eyes let him know his message gets through. That warm brown….

Gonna miss that up there in martyr’s heaven, bet you anything. Bet you a million bucks.

Stevie. Shit.

He doesn’t wanna go. The fear is bursting through. He— 

He doesn’t let the fear show in his eyes. Closes his lids tight, blinds himself so he’ll be able to somehow turn away again. But he still ain’t gonna look at the monster. Smelling it is enough for now. Tasting it on his dry pasty tongue—one last drink for the big goddamn hero? No? He’s not gonna look until he’s good and goddamn ready to look. The monster can wait.

“This is gonna be a rough one,” he says, quiet enough so he knows Stevie _won’t_ hear—the guy’ll get that message soon e-fuckin-nough, thank you. He holds that shit off for one more moment. Protects Steve; protects him and protects him and protects him—what else is he good for?

He kisses his medal. _St. Christopher, be with me on my travels._ Sends some pleading jumble of _please-don’t-let-this-be-it-be-done-be-all_ up to some god he hasn’t thought of since he was a kid. Since before his mom—

He drops the medal from his lips. 

Eyes still closed, he puffs out one dry laugh, because all those bullshit stories are right—god, he can’t breathe—your life really does flash by your eyes when you’re about to—

He’s shaking. 

He skips over all the shitty parts of his life to make the good ones last, stretch like taffy on a hot summer day. The good stuff. Only the good stuff. Doesn’t revisit his childhood; doesn’t remember his mother’s voice or scent or the feel of her arms around him. He saves all his time up for Steve. Stevie. The good times. The best. Plays each moment slow as he’s able: Stevie at a party, on the court, in the showers. Stevie on the floor under his fists. Stevie on the floor with wrists pinned in his stupid plaid-walled room, kissing back up into Billy’s lips, hips bucking into hips. Stevie in his car, on the road or sometimes parked—the ironic heart on a sex-steamed window; the grin. Stevie in his bed, before, during and after they fuck in those sweat-soaked sheets tangled and laughing about it and exchanging warm soft true solemn whispers with each other that they both forget by morning. All Stevie. Just Stevie and Stevie and Stevie, forever, amen.

The good stuff.

He cherishes each moment. He takes what time he has left to cherish that shit. Then he opens up his eyes.

And it makes it all a little better when he hears Steve scream his name—makes the pain a little better, makes him fight that little bit harder, sure, as the monster towers over him and he holds that fucker off with nothing but his bare hands and his bad attitude. But it makes it all just that little bit worse for Billy, too. And when the gigantic fucking monster that he’d been forced to help create finally wises up and skewers Billy through—god is that blood in his mouth or bleach—finishes him off, that hurt sound coming out of Steve is— The pain he hears in Steve’s voice is...well shit, the pain it causes, hearing that, hurts him more than the dying. Yeah, the failing is definitely worse than the dying. Definitely.

And that’s funny, if he thinks about it. Look at him over here, giving a fuck. Just look at him now.

Not a piece of shit, after all, huh?

He slides off of the thing’s withdrawing tentacles and onto the cold tile floor, the blood just flooding out of him, and he really is dying, isn’t he? Shit. He really— 

He should be afraid, now, right? If there was a time— Where’s all his fear gone, now?

He smells pool water and rust. Remembers how much he’d—Jesus he’s freezing, he’s—how he’d looked forward to that stupid goddamn job. That job as a lifeguard—all tanning in the summer sun and everyone lookin at his oiled up body and all that authority and all those people wanting and the secret all the better between him and Steve and how they’d laughed about it over ice cream shared tongue to tongue behind _this fucking mall_ after work and— All seems pretty stupid now, don’t it? Heh. Yeah, it does. Pretty fucking stupid.

But he wouldn’t say no to one of those stupid kisses now. 

Steve swims into his line of sight and Billy smiles as well as he can. Look at that. Look at his boy. So fucking pretty. And he’s thankful. Gets one last good look at those eyes—one last chance to memorize the warm accepting brown of em. _See you._ Gets to linger in the heat of em till the dark cold tunnel of his vision collapses in on him. And even then he smiles, shredded hand held tight in Steve’s. He can feel that connection. Can still— 

“Save you...a spot, Stevie.”

It’s the last thing he manages to tell the guy. Tries to feel the involuntary smile Steve must be cracking, even through the pain, at such a fucking stupid joke. And there. There it is. _Yeah, there you are, Stevie. Feel you._

He kicks off on a chuckle of his own.

Doesn’t stick around to hear the sound of Steve’s smile breaking with the force of the sob that Billy’d felt waiting in the back of the guy’s throat, held off by that joke. Held off for just a moment to protect Steve one last time. Protect him and protect him and protect him. What else is Billy good for?

Heaven better not be boring, is all he’s sayin.

Heaven better be worth it.


End file.
